


Just Something I Can Turn To (Somebody I Can Kiss)

by Christhewitch



Series: A Court of Prompts and (Mostly) One-shots [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, CEO Tamlin, Detective Feyre, Douchebag Tamlin, F/M, Meant to be a oneshot but I accidentally thought up a plot???, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, bby Rhysand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christhewitch/pseuds/Christhewitch
Summary: Maybe what Tamlin doesn't see is her need to just talk to someone, to feel like an actual normal human being, to not feel trapped in a cage. He never sees it, and she doubt he ever will.This stranger, though, seems to understand, and somehow sees through the image she's expected to keep.-“Dare I ask why you wanted to escape the party inside?” the stranger's sensuous voice reached her ears, and she almost shivered at how beautiful it was.“I can ask you the same thing,” she countered, tearing her eyes from the view to stare into his teasing, relaxed orbs.“Touche.” He grinned.





	Just Something I Can Turn To (Somebody I Can Kiss)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own ACOTAR or any of its characters!

Feyre hated parties.

Not necessarily the parties that she attended in her later years of high school, with red solo cups filled with cheap beer and students were found making out in every nook and corner—even though she preferred not to go to those either. But she meant the parties she was forced to go to shortly after Tamlin slipped a ring on her left ring finger. The “fancy gown that probably costs more than both of her kidneys, ballroom with floors so shiny she can see her reflection, and wealthy CEOs, heirs of multinational corporations, and higher-up government officials that all examined the area like vultures searching for the weakest prey” parties.

Sure, Feyre loved dressing up every once in a while. And yes, she thought the space around her was absolutely breathtaking.

But she hated wearing a gown that had the color of Tamlin's business, almost like she was just another property of his. She hated having to look interested at all the nonsense everyone spewed about problems that didn't even mattered. She hated all the high-class, privileged, aristocrats that talked about raising prices, buying out land, lowering employee salaries, all the things that would negatively affect people in the lower-class. She hated acting brainless, like she had no idea how the world worked, despite having been a detective at one point. She hated just having to stand there, smiling and nodding, acting like a socialite who knew nothing about politics or business. All problems that she would never share with her fiance.

She sighed before taking a sip from her champagne glass. The dinner had ended only a few moments ago, and now most people were mingling and exchanging small-talk, fake smiles plastered on faces. She stood with Tamlin, Lucien, and two friends of theirs—Bron and Hart—all of who were talking and bantering like old friends. When everyone else laughed, she did her part and smiled like she was listening. Every now and then, when questions were directed towards her (mostly about the wedding), she would just nod when Tamlin answered for her instead. It was always like that, she stood there like a puppet while he did the talking for her. He hardly let her speak to anyone outside him, Lucien, and occasionally Ianthe now. Not since—

She took another sip.

The smell of overpriced perfume, champagne, and their recent, gourmet dinner danced around the room. These days, it felt like it was all she ever smelt, oddly enough. That or the ever present scent of roses and flowers from the garden at her and Tamlin's house. Most of the time, she wouldn't even notice it anymore. Now, though, it filled her nose, surrounding her so much that it almost suffocated her. It made it harder to breathe, and for a flash of a moment she wasn't there anymore—

“I'm going to get some fresh air,” she blurted. She couldn't find herself to care that she just snapped them out of a deep conversation, blinking at her in shock. They hadn't been expecting her to speak the whole night, probably. Feyre just forced on the most pleasant smile she could manage.

“Okay,” Tamlin said, concern he wouldn't share with her evident in his eyes. He reached to grab her arm, raising his other hand preparing to wave goodbye to his frineds.

No, she didn't want him going with her. All he would do was smother her and drag her back inside.

“I can go alone,” she said lightly, but she could hear the slight point to her voice. “Really, it's fine. I don't want to interrupt anything.”

Tamlin stared at her, and he opened his mouth, no doubt preparing to refuse.

“It's fine, Tamlin. _I'll_ be fine. I'm just walking to the balcony,” she continued before he could say anything.

A beat of silence passed. “Okay,” he nodded, he reached out to give her heard a squeeze.

“I'll be back here soon,” she reassured. Before Lucien or Bron and Hart could say anything, she retreated. Eventually, she heard their conversation start back up, but she knew Tamlin's eyes wouldn't leave her back until she would be on the balcony, out of his sight. A server passed by her, carrying a tray of champagne glasses. She set down her empty glass on the tray and plucked a full one, saying a small thanks before leaving.

It looked like she wasn't the only one who wanted to flee from the gathering inside.

Upon stepping into the balcony, the stiletto of her heel echoed into the night sky. A stranger that was previously leaning his elbows on the stone rail, staring outside, turned around at the sound of her entering. And he was probably the most beautiful man she's ever seen.

Short black hair, twinkling eyes so dark they were almost violet, tan skin, and a sculptured face that would have her reaching for her paints, months ago.

She took another greedy sip from her glass before making her way deeper into the night, light green gown swishing around her ankles, until she was leaning right next to him.

Those violet eyes were still on her, but she just stared at the twinkling stars around them. Somehow, it made her breathe easy, easier than she had in months. The smell of dew, citrus, and the sea filled her system, releasing tension that she hadn't even known she had.

“Dare I ask why you wanted to escape the party inside?” the stranger's sensuous voice reached her ears, and she almost shivered at how beautiful it was.

“I can ask you the same thing,” she countered, tearing her eyes from the view to stare into his teasing, relaxed orbs.

“Touche.” He grinned.

She hummed, and turned her head back to stare out again.

Comfortable silence passed between them. He eventually tore his gaze from her to watch the night sky too. And somehow it felt...easy. Right. Like somehow, she knew this man and they had done this before.

“I'm here,” he said after a while—Feyre had to run through her memories to figure out what he was talking about, until she remember what they had said to each other only minutes ago, “because I'm not a fan of these parties.”

She raised her brows, but still didn't look at him. They continued to look forward. “Not a fan of aristocrats staring you down like they're going to tear you apart, CEOs practically ruining the lives of those in poverty, and billionaires that probably don't know the price of dish soap? What's not there to like?” She snorted to herself, and took another sip.

He turned to look at her. She glanced back, and she couldn't place the expression on his face.

“Something tells me that you don't like them, either,” he joked, a grin forming on his lips.

“What?” she placed a mock hand on her chest. “What gave it away?”

He chuckled, then nodded towards her glass. “How many of those have you had?”

“Not enough,” she grumbled.

His grin grew. “I don't think I've seen you around before.”

She frowned. “Is it that obvious that I stand out?” All she did at these things was stand next to Tamlin and smile and nod to whatever everyone had to say. The mindless future wife of a CEO that everyone expected her to be.

“I would definitely remember seeing you,” he purred. She fought the urge to shiver.

“I haven't seen you around, either,” Feyre said instead. Truth be told, she had only gone to about two of these parties previous to the current one. But, as cheesy as it sounded...she would have probably remembered him, too.

“I tend to miss as many of these as I possibly can.”

“Lucky.”

His grin turned into an actual, genuine smile. The breath was almost knocked out of her. “May I ask what you're name is, darling?”

Alright, this was dangerous territory. She didn't feel drunk, not at all, but she suddenly wished she was so she could have an excuse for not caring about how she should  _not_ be talking to this guy.

“I'm sure you'd like to know.” She drained the rest of her drink.

“Ever playful, aren't you?” he asked, amused.

“Ready to throw in the towel yet?”

“Not even close.” _I'll play with you all day_ his eyes practically said.

She hummed again, feeling more light than she had in months. Maybe all she needed, that Tamlin didn't understand, was someone to just  _talk_ to. Someone she could joke and dance around verbally with.

“Rhysand,” he said. It took her a moment before she realized what he was telling her. “Your turn.”

She opened her mouth, but someone cut her off.

“Feyre.”

She almost flinched at the way her name was said. Like a master demanding his pet to behave.

She whirled around. There Tamlin stood, glare focused on her companion. “Rhysand,” he said curtly, and Feyre's brows shot up.

“Tamlin,” Rhysand said in reply. Cool amusement twinkled in his eyes, but only hostility rested in her fiance's gaze.

He turned his eyes from him and strode over to her. He grabbed her arm immediately, not hard enough to hurt her, but firm enough to remind her of who she was supposed to be. The wealthy man's brainless, pretty wife, who only exchanges pointless small talk and is attached to her husband's side the whole night, even if they weren't even married yet.

Rhysand glanced down at where Tamlin gripped her arm, and she could have sworn something flared in his gaze. But it was gone by the time he blinked.

“Let's go,” her fiance told her before she had the chance to say anything. He began to drag her out, back into that room of aristocrats, socialites, fancy citizens who could ruin lives with a snap of their fingers—

She turned to look at him one last time. He was already looking at her, sadness and gentleness swimming in his gaze. He mouthed one last thing at her before Tamlin tugged her far enough that she couldn't see him anymore.

_Fight it._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so like...I was super bored, my data ran out, I had no internet connection, my phone died, and I was stuck in a car for eight hours and this idea kind of just came to mind so I wrote to pass the time. And then I got to thinking (dangerous for me, already) and fuck me now have a whole plot and shit in mind. So this was meant, at first, to be a lil oneshot, but if people like this enough then I'll continue this???? If not, enjoy Douchebag Tamlin, bby Rhys, my poor PTSD Feyre, and a cute meeting thing.


End file.
